Thya's Point of View
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In our world, names are not just words. They hold a power so immense, so deeply ingrained in our existence, that no ordinary person can be entrusted with choosing them. Not your parents, not your family, no one. This sacred responsibility rests solely with the Oracle. The moment a woman discovers she is with child, she must make the journey to the Oracle, who will speak a phrase. This phrase is more than mere words; it is a prophecy, a divine declaration that captures the very essence of the child yet to be born. It is from this prophecy that the name of the child is drawn—a name that will define them, shape them, and, in many ways, determine the course of their life.
For me, the phrase given by the Oracle was this: "The well-behaved child who comes to help you in the dark." And from that phrase, my name was created—Nsomi Eileithya D'Arcy.
Nsomi, meaning "a well-behaved child." Eileithya, meaning "she who comes to help you." And D'Arcy, the name that ties me to my family, meaning "dark." Every phrase the Oracle has ever spoken for a member of my father's bloodline ends with that same word: "dark." It is more than just a surname; it is a mark of our heritage, proof of who belongs to the D'Arcy lineage and who does not. In our world, this tradition is not unique to my family. Every family has their own defining word, a signature that binds their bloodline together and sets them apart from all others.
The Royal Family, for example, always ends their phrases with the word "Greatest," and so their surname, Maximillian, means "of the Greatest."
Take my best friend, Avy, for instance. Her phrase was "The strong, powerful, and beautiful Princess between the greatest," and her name reflected that prophecy perfectly. Avyanna Amirah Maximillian—each part of her name carefully chosen to embody the essence of her phrase. Avyanna, meaning "the strong, powerful, and beautiful woman." Amirah, meaning "Princess." And Maximillian, the family name, a title befitting the royalty she was born into.
In every region of our kingdom, there is an Oracle who serves the Gods' Temple. Their authority is unmatched, their connection to the divine unquestionable. They answer only to the King himself, though even the King, with all his power and influence, is often at the mercy of their divine wisdom and godlike abilities. The Oracles are revered, feared, and utterly untouchable.
None of that matters to me, though. Because I hate my name. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I hate it almost as much as I hate myself for still being alive when she is not.
It has been five years since Avyanna died. Five years since the Rosé disease took her from me, from all of us. And in those five years, I've come to despise the very essence of who I am. I've always known that my life would be filled with misery. I could feel it, deep down, even as a child. And yet, I never truly understood the depths of that misery until she was gone.
I was supposed to be someone who could help others in their darkest moments. That's what the Oracle's phrase promised. That's what my name was meant to signify. But I couldn't help anyone—not my family, not my best friend, not even myself. My name, my phrase, my power—they're all lies. Lies that mock me every day.
Because my power didn't save anyone. All it did was bring me pain.
It began when I was only three years old, far too young to comprehend what was happening to me. My mother, Abene, the Duchess of the D'Arcy Dukedom in the southern region of the kingdom, was the first. She was the first person whose death I saw. And then, one by one, the rest followed.
My sisters, Akira, Chimere, and Nefertari—the triplets—were next. They were only five years older than me. Two months later, it was Inara, my half-sister, two years my senior. Then came Rune, my younger brother by just a year. After Rune, it was my grandparents, then my aunt, and then three of my cousins.
And finally, there was Avyanna.
Her death was the one that broke me. The one that shattered whatever was left of my fragile heart. She was the last piece of light in my life, and now she is gone. Taken by the Rosé disease, just like so many others before her.
My father, Duke Meelis, has hated me ever since my power awakened. And, honestly, I can't blame him. After all, I saw his death, too—an accident that will happen twenty-seven years from now. He doesn't know that, of course, but I do. I see it every time I look at him. Just like I see all the others.
My stepmother? She hates me even more than he does. She blames me for Avyanna's death, for her daughter's death. She doesn't know that she still has thirty-two years left to live, but I do.
Do you know what it's like to carry that burden? To see the deaths of everyone you love before they happen? To know, with absolute certainty, that you can do nothing to stop it? I was just a child—a three-year-old child—when this curse was placed upon me. Do you know what that kind of trauma does to someone so young? It's unimaginable. It's cruel. It's a nightmare I can never wake up from.
I still have two brothers left. Barely.
The first is Aeneas Alphonse Siarl, whose name means "the praiseworthy and ready-for-battle free man." He's the youngest son of my stepmother, born before she married my father, back when she was still his mistress. Because of that, his surname is Siarl, not D'Arcy. Aeneas has hated me for as long as I can remember, but his hatred grew into something far darker after Avyanna died. He loved her, you see. Loved her in a way that consumed him. And now he blames me—not only for her death but for his sister's as well.
Then there's Izan Rai D'Arcy, my full-blooded brother. His name means "the perpetual lightning in the dark." He is the next Duke of the D'Arcy line, and he loathes me with a passion that Aeneas could never match. Izan doesn't blame me for Avyanna's death—no, his hatred runs deeper. He blames me for the deaths of our mother, our sisters, our grandparents, and everyone else we lost. To him, I am not just a cursed girl. I am the curse. A walking plague that has destroyed everything he holds dear.
I've seen their deaths, too. Izan will die peacefully, at the age of eighty-eight, in his sleep. Aeneas, on the other hand, will meet a far less dignified end—falling down the stairs of his castle at the age of ninety-four. I would laugh at the absurdity of it if he weren't my brother.
But that is my life. A constant cycle of loss and pain. A never-ending series of deaths that I can never stop, no matter how hard I try. That is the curse I bear. That is the weight I carry.